


Broken Arrows

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Ghost Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-10
Updated: 2008-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob is a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Arrows

Frank's been standing still for a good ten minutes, rubbing his eyes and clicking his tongue when he asks, ”Are you staying?”

Bob tries not to flinch at his words, and watches as Frank lets his backpack slide to the hardwood floor. He can't help but notice how tan Frank's hands are, the edge of a new tattoo visible. His hair is longer than Bob remembers, lighter in spots and small curls begin to form at the tips. He doesn't think he's ever seen Frank's hair this long.

”I don't know. I'm not really in the driver's seat with this—this thing.” Bob wonders, not for the first time, if it still counts as a haunting when you can't control it.

Frank worries his lower lip in response, gaze burying itself in Bob's skull. It's unnerving, the way Frank's really _looking_ at him, as if to reassure both Bob and himself that Bob's really there; that he _can_ see him.

”But you've been here before?” Bob nods, and Frank continues, ”When I've been here?” Bob nods again. Frank's jaw tightens, like he wants to yell at him. Like he wants to ask, 'Why didn't you say anything, you asshole? You should've fucking said something.'

He doesn't, though, and while his face is all sharp edges still, his voice comes out soft, ”Why can I see you now? Does that mean I'm dead? Or, fuck.”

It's the way Frank says it, like he almost wants it to be true, that makes Bob's stomach lurch. He's been making a fist without realizing, and Frank is making that face he always makes when they've had a fight. Bob shakes his head, says, ”You'd know—you'd definitely know.”

”Shit.” Frank's cheek hollows, like he's biting the inside, trying not to speak and regretting what he just said. Frank sighs, and presses the heel of his palm into his eyes. ”Shouldn't you be transparent? Or like, floating?”

Bob shrugs, shakes his head. He doesn't know, and he doesn't really want to. His vision is starting to blur, all the colors turning the same vivid shade. He knows what's about to happen, it's always like this: like leaves in the fall, all going bright, bright until they all look the same and then fade away.

He can barely make out Frank's outline when he speaks again, and the sound reverberates in faint waves. ”Okay, yeah. Not important, Frank, god I'm so stupid. It's not—”

  


...

  
The first time Bob remembers it happening, he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, literally. There are fireworks going off outside, and it takes him a few seconds to orient himself. The covers are still tucked on his side, and he's face down in the mess Frank has made of his sheets, with no actual Frank to be found. He doesn't really think much of the way it seems his face is actually in the pillow rather than resting on it, and he grabs the cellphone vibrating on the nightstand, grunts a muffled, ”Hello.”

There's no answer, and he mutters a few curses, only to hear the phone still buzzing and not in his hand.

He picks it up again, a little more frantic and a little more focused, making sure he actually sees the phone in his hand, watches as he presses the receive button. No one speaks, and he when he turns to the nightstand the phone is there again, buzzing, and his hand is empty.

”Well fuck you, too,” he says to himself, and looks around. The room's lopsided: the bed's not in the center of the room anymore, his habitual spot wedged into the wall. The light is strange too, like it's coming from the wrong place; the wrong lamp from the wrong side of the room and what the _fuck_. He has no idea where Frank is which sucks because he’s going to pay so hard for this prank. It's not even funny. He blinks a few times, and screws the muscles in his face into a grimace. He doesn't feel hungover, or drunk.

It's not until Bob notices that he’s slammed his arm into the wall and it didn't even hurt that he's not so much lying on the bed as he is half _inside_ it, hips barely jutting out of the mattress, that he realizes it’s not a prank at all.

He doesn't touch anything other than himself after that. He keeps his hands in close proximity to one another: traces the lines in his palms and the bumps of his knuckles. He steps close enough to the window to see that the street is covered in slush, and the trees' branches are heavy with snow. That, and he has no reflection.

He backs away into a corner, covering his eyes with his fingers, small circles of pressure spreading over his face. He traces the bridge of his nose over and over again. He keeps doing it until he can see himself in his mind; until he believes he's still there, still here.

Bob's startled by the sound of dissonant footsteps coming closer. Two, three, four, and the bedroom door opens, the sound of Frank's giggling spills through, crushing any illusion Bob might've had that this wasn't real. It's not the good kind of laughter: a drunken careening half-wail, half-laugh, more hysterical than amused.

Gerard is with him, his arms wrapped around Frank's torso. It looks like he's carrying Frank's entire weight when he hobbles over to the bed and tips Frank into it. Gerard shrugs, weight rolling off his shoulders as Frank burrows under the comforter, says, ”'m freezing, bleurgh.”

There's a stab in Bob's gut when Gerard picks the cellphone up like it's nothing, and the room is bathed in a faint green tone when he unlocks it. ”Next time take your phone with you,” Gerard says, and drops it on the bed.

”Oh, hey, I've got some missed calls.” Frank rolls over, eyes half lidded as he stares down the display. ”Aaaw, they're from you Gee, you called? That's so sweet.”

”Yeah, well,” Gerard says, and it seems like there should be more, but he doesn't say anything, swallows instead. He looks down at Frank, with this...look, like his entire face is hurting. The curve of his lip is set in a firm downward slope, the kind that takes a long time to evolve. Bob's never seen this expression on him before, and he's never wanted to read minds more than he does right now.

”You staying? Gee?” Frank tugs at Gerard's sleeve, cellphone abandoned and washing his face with a venomous green light. ”You, me, and Bob make three. Make a Party.” Bob jerks at his name, and his mouth twists as Frank giggles again. His voice sounds heavy when he speaks again, ”Get it? Funny, right. Frikking hilarious.”

”It's really not.” Gerard's hands glow in the dark; white, clean, blank. Blank canvases against Frank's shivering figure. He tucks hair from Frank's face, and the cell's light goes out. Frank still looks green.

”Isn't this what you wanted?” Frank asks, and he sounds so alert and sharp, Bob shivers. Frank presses his head into Gerard's palm. His hand's wrapped around Gee's other wrist, fingers under the cuff, and Bob thinks he might get sick. _Trespassing_ , he thinks, and has to stop himself from punching air.

Gerard doesn't flinch, or frown or do anything other than smooth Frank's hair again, before getting up, grabbing the glass already on the nightstand. ”Aspirin’s in the third kitchen drawer, right?” Gerard doesn't wait for an answer, stepping away without effort, and if Bob weren't paying attention he wouldn't have noticed the point of impact when Gerard's arm bumps into his.

Nothing happens. Gerard walks out of the room, and Bob can hear water pouring and the scrambling of bottles from the kitchen. Bob wants to cry, or laugh, or maybe both. If anyone were to notice; if there was even a remote chance of anyone noticing it'd be Gerard.

”Happy fucking new year,” Frank says, still an immobile lump on the bed, and he flips over, face emerging from the pillow. His feet are poking out from under the sheets, and the cuffs of his jeans look wet.

Frank shivers, eyes fixed to the ceiling. His voice is barely audible when he says, ”Don't look at me like that.”

  


...

  
”What's it like? Where--where you are when you're not...here?” Frank asks, and it startles Bob. He's watching the skyline turn white from the dawn and the falling snow, hypnotized by the snowflakes sticking to the window. He'd reached through the glass earlier, just to see if the flakes would fall through his hand. He'd forgotten that Frank was there at all, and he feels stupid for doing that in front of him.

Frank's face is blank when Bob looks at him; it's studied, ready for a battle or bad news. Bob's seen this expression before, but this time he can't figure out what Frank wants to hear. Bob considers lying, considers saying, _I'm always here, just not like, visible_ , or _There's a lot of lute-playing and tons of fat babies_. After a while he settles for, ”It's like dreaming. Like a very long dream.”

Frank nods, and there's something flickering in his eyes before they go dark, processing the response. Bob's grateful that Frank doesn't ask if it's like a bad dream or a good one. He doesn't think he could answer that.

It's not a lie, strictly speaking. Bob never could remember his dreams, and this isn't any different. And to him, coming to from one of the blackouts is the same as waking up; the crawl in his skin and the swim in his vision are there just the same. The feeling of sinking into something that may be as imaginary as the place he just left. He's groggy now, even though he's been around for almost an entire day, listening to Frank breathe, substituting it for his own breath.

He's doing it still, as Frank breathes against his back. It's as if Frank knows that Bob needs the make-believe. For a brief moment, Bob can feel Frank's head resting between his shoulder blades. Bob jerks reflexively at the unexpected touch, and there's a soft, ”Holy shit,” coming from behind him.

He thinks he imagined the nudge until Frank paws at Bob's back after a few seconds, and Bob has difficulty registering it as real. He's afraid to look down to find Frank's hands sticking through his chest, but when he does they're not there. They're firm around the curve of his shoulders, driving into his body, grounding him.

It's like Frank has sunk his teeth into the quick of him, finding the most tender spot and splitting him open. It shouldn't be reassuring, but it is. Frank is saying, _you belong, you do, you do,_ with every ounce of his weight pressing against him, and Bob welcomes it.

  


...

  
Bob's head hurts from the familiarity of Frank's touch. Every scrape of nail on skin replayed, superimposed and it's too much and not enough all at once. Frank buries his face in the crook of his neck, biting the skin, and Bob can remember and count every single time he's done that. He wants Frank to do it again, and again, and again.

Sense memory, his mind tells him, like electricity, like energy: nothing ever disappears completely. Bob ignores it and savors the feel of Frank's legs wrapped around him, heels rubbing invisible bruises into the small of his back.

Frank tastes exactly like Bob remembers when he drags his tongue across his chest. Frank is different and the same all at once: he bares his teeth before going for the kill, but his nails dig in a little harder than they ever have, as if to make sure Bob is really there. It's hard enough to break skin, but there are never any marks. Bob can't stop himself from pressing his fingertips onto the spots Frank's scratched, but there are never any dents, no swelling. He's disappointed every time, but he doesn't stop Frank from doing it. ”My wrist doesn't hurt anymore,” he tells Frank once, after. When Frank's leaning against the wall, hair static and clinging. His fingers are curled around a cigarette, holding it very still. It doesn't look lit. This is different: the way Frank is always touching something, always holding on to bits and pieces of material objects after touching Bob. As if he were trying to compare the feel of Bob's skin to that of a ball point pen, or reassuring himself that he was still completely corporeal.

Frank snorts, he almost looks angry, the kind where he's holding it in but in reality just wants to strangle someone. ”That's a really shitty trade off,” he says at last, and takes a deep drag from his cigarette.

There's nothing Bob can say to that except, 'Yeah,' so he doesn't and lets Frank kiss him, mouth filled with smoke that Bob can't taste.

  


...

  
Frank is saying, ”The pasta got burnt again, I think there's something wrong with the fucking timer.” Frank scrambles with the pots in the kitchen, drops of tomato sauce splattering over the counter as he dips a finger in the pan. Frank ignores it, humming as he licks his thumb.

There's a disconnect, and Bob hears himself say, ”A little crunch gives it character,” and he grabs some paper towels, wiping the counter clean.

Frank is looking at him like he doesn't know what Bob's talking about, and there's something wrong with the way his eyes are narrowed at him. There are deep lines in Frank's forehead that Bob's not used to seeing. That's not how Frank's supposed to be looking at him. Bob thinks he should grin, so he does, and Frank lets out a small laugh, sound rippling, but it's uncertain; not at all the way Bob remembers it.

Bob rubs his face with his hand, trying to figure out what's wrong. When he glances at the counter the sauce splatter is still there, and the pile of paper napkins is intact, untouched.

He mutters a, ”The fuck?” and turns towards Frank, but he's not standing in the kitchen anymore, he's in the hallway with his hair long, curling under his ears, and he asks, ”Shouldn't you be transparent? Or like, floating?”

  


...

  
It turns into habit, the way Frank splays his hands across Bob's clavicles, letting bursts of hot breath trace patterns on Bob's skin. The feeling has faded, overused: he has to concentrate to wake up whatever's left of his nerves—he has to pay more attention to what Frank does, to react appropriately—but Bob doesn't want it to stop, is content just watching Frank touch him and pretend.Frank bites his lip, and strokes a firm path across Bob's chest with his thumb. He's never done this before, and Bob wouldn't have noticed he was doing it if Frank hadn't spoken. He asks, ”Does it hurt?”

”Does what hurt?” Frank ducks his head, and Bob looks down at the calloused thumb rubbing his chest.

Rubbing a scar on his chest. It's an angry red, still swollen and the patch of skin shines. Bob doesn't remember ever seeing it. He touches it too, but it feels like his regular skin: dry and a little rough. It makes him uneasy, and he wonders what else he doesn't know; what else Frank is keeping from him. He hitches Frank into his lap with unnatural ease, and Frank's fingers weave into the hair at the back of his neck, tugging hard.

”No, no, no,” Bob says, as he presses kisses to Frank's face, and he tells himself his thighs are numb from Frank's weight.

  


...

  
Bob watches as Frank pulls off his shirt, a grin disappearing behind the red fabric as it bunches around his head. It's not the first time he sees this.

Frank's smile is different; the lines around his lips and eyes deeper than usual, not vanishing when the smile does. There's a shadow on the wall moving in tact with Frank, soft edges repeating all the motions, and Bob's having trouble distinguishing the real Frank from his shadow. Frank's face is fraught with expectation, and Bob almost prefers the faceless shadow effigy.

He can't tell if this is happening now or if it already has.

Bob watches as Frank's hands rest on Bob's hips, and the way his back bends like he's putting all his weight on Bob. He watches as Frank's palm rubs along his hipbone, and as Frank comes closer and rubs his nose over Bob's stomach, teeth scraping a pattern across Bob's skin. He watches Frank doing these things to him, and he tangles his fingers in Frank's hair; he knows that's what he's supposed to be doing. He's seen this before; he's done this before.

Bob doesn't have the energy to concentrate anymore, he's only along for the ride. He can't help but think that maybe he isn't there at all. Maybe he's been made up. Made up people don't feel, do they?

Maybe Frank is lying in the living room right now, writhing on the floor all by himself. Maybe Frank is insane. Grief induced psychosis. A variation on multiple personality disorder perhaps, where both can be present and interact. Perhaps Bob's a figment of his imagination, maybe he's always been. Bob tries not to panic at the thought, but he can't help think that Frank is doing this to him, making him crazy because Frank himself is. Or maybe it's the other way around: maybe Bob is the one who's doing this to Frank.

There must be a way to reverse it, whatever 'it' is. Bob remembers someone telling him once that nothing is ever set in stone, and even if it is, stone can be broken. Even diamonds in the rough get cut, divided and dispersed, their fortunes never told.

The tendons in Frank's neck are strained and his breath hitches, before a lazy smile spreads across his face, eyes fluttering closed. It can't be real. Frank should be able to tell that something's wrong. If there is even such a thing as a sign this should be it. The Frank he knows would have noticed a long time ago.

Bob's already used to collecting sounds, listening as a poor substitution for his drums. He tries to imprint the patterns of sound around him into his spine: spirals of beats and notes solidifying him. There's the drip of the bathroom faucet, curving across his chest; the sound of the wind rattling the window, with added rain or hail forming small building blocks in his hands; the neighbor's morning routine which he and Frank used to laugh at) coats his stomach.

He listens to the meter of Frank's voice; and drag of his feet against the hardwood floor, his heartbeat when awake, asleep and when fucked into the wall. Bob doesn't sleep, but he watches when Frank does, laces his fingers around Frank's wrists and counts his pulse, keeping the beat. It's enough for them both; it has to be.

He stays away from Frank's throat, mostly because his sensitivity to the touch wakes him up. Right now that's not a priority, and it's easy, the way Bob's hands fit against Frank's throat, as if it's meant to be. The squeezing comes easy, Frank's flesh is soft and this he feels. He could crush Frank's windpipe as he slept if he wanted to.

But he's not a coward, and he presses harder, pictures bones digging into the flesh as his grip tightens, willing Frank to wake up, wake up, wake the _fuck_ up.

Frank's eyes are pliant when he does, limbs loose and limp against Bob's chest and it's wrong—this isn't how it's supposed to go. He's awake and aware, so fucking aware, face reflecting everything Bob's feeling. Frank should be fighting with everything he has, kicking and screaming and spitting in Bob's face. If this is all because of something Frank's done or said, if it's all his fault and he's the one in control, he should be going down in a blaze.

Bob's hands let go of their own accord. The scar on his torso hurts now, searing as if it's opening up and letting his insides spill out. If he cracked open, Bob's certain there'd be nothing but ash ”if even that). Tiny particles of hazardous waste blending into the air, poisoning everything, everyone.

And maybe Bob is the stone that's supposed to be broken. There's a tear in his gut ”right where the sound of Frank's laughter is stored) and his legs are numb, empty. It's like he's a tree, a big fucking tree with all the bark peeled off, and with each root and branch and vein infested with mold, a feasting ground for termites eating away at the soft tissue. There's nothing left for them now, he's not even skin and bones anymore, not even real. Bob's surprised he hasn't collapsed in on himself yet.

Frank is looking at him like he _knows_ , now. It's the same look he gets when revising a song Like this—like he—is something to fix, that can be fixed.

Bob can't look at Frank's face without wanting to punch something. He thinks he understands. He doesn't fucking understand. He can't: he's still anchored to this reality, not even gasping for breath after being strangled.

  


...

  
Bob hears the voice first, it plucks at the back of his head, echoing inside, nagging him to remember.

It's pleading, ”Bob, focus. Look at me, please, fucking look at me.”

He thinks he opens his eyes, but there's nothing there, just waves of sound. It's the same voice that says, ”Listen, don't you fucking let go you piece of shit, _look at me_ ,” and Bob should know who it is. There are firecrackers going off in his head when the light switches on again, and it's Frank leaning over him, saying all those things, but he doesn't look like Frank at all. He looks like he's inside out; fast-forwarded to with a different wear in his face. He keeps telling Bob to focus. Bob tries to, he really does, but Frank doesn't stop talking and Bob doesn't know what he's doing wrong.

Frank's not wearing a shirt, and Bob wants to laugh at that. The corners of Frank's tattoos are blurry, and Bob reaches up to touch them, to sharpen the contours. His hand moves up over Frank's collarbone, and further still, pausing over Frank's bobbing Adam's apple, feeling for bruises that aren't there.

”I think I need to lie down.”

”Yeah, yeah we can do that.”

Frank nods, says, ”Just...try okay? Try for me, please?”

Bob tries to shake off his discomfort, and says, ”I could use some help, I think I must've like. God, I don't even know—”

”It'll be fine, just fine. Okay? Just. Dandy.” It doesn't sound like Frank believes what he's saying, and his face scrunches up when he reaches for Bob's shoulders. Bob glances down. It looks like Frank's hands are reaching through him now, which must mean there's something wrong with his vision. He blinks a few times, and Frank rubs his own face with his palm, mouth slack. ”Just fine, it'll be fine.”

Bob closes his eyes again, stays still, and waits for Frank to take his hand and show the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Consider it disclaimed. It's called fiction for a reason.  
> Title from a José González song. Many thanks to [](http://darksylvia.livejournal.com/profile)[**darksylvia**](http://darksylvia.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta and sound advice and [](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/profile)[**lovebashed**](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading and listening to me whine for weeks. All feedback is welcome and very appreciated!


End file.
